


and the preacher said he was a good man

by AnonymousVow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Mycroft Holmes, F/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft doesn't kill anyone, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is not good, Not Quite Sane, Overprotective Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's loss broke Mycroft's heart, Sorry Mary, Sorry john, a bit of Sherlolly if you squint, but he wants to, no beta we die like men, not very Watson friendly, sherlock is actually dead, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24676267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousVow/pseuds/AnonymousVow
Summary: It was the first thing on Mycroft's mind when he looked at the Watsons. ‘Sherlock died for this,’ he would think, every time.***Mycroft can't kill them, but he can still take his vengeance.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 11
Kudos: 82





	and the preacher said he was a good man

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little fic written in a couple of hours so please don’t judge it too stringently. Not Brit-picked and my first Sherlock fanfic. Originally was supposed to be a small background part of a much larger fic (a crossover where Sherlock is reincarnated as Harry Potter and Hermione Emma Watson Granger is the child of Harry Watson and her wife, Jean Granger) but I decided to write up my ideas of how Mycroft would react to Sherlock’s death in that fic and it became something that could stand alone.

* * *

It turned out - as it always turned out - that the terrorist ring in Eastern Europe was more than what the goldfish at Whitehall had bargained for.

Mycroft had accounted for that.

It turned out that their operations were global and far-reaching, old and deep-buried, and about to shift the balance of world power.

Mycroft had not accounted for that.

It turned out that Sherlock, his amazing, brilliant, infuriating baby brother, had been able to bring them all down, in a glorious cascading avalanche of murders and explosions and poisons and rigged deaths, men moving according to his brother’s madcap, genius designs. Sherlock had not died in six months, but most of the people in the ring had.

Mycroft had hoped for that.

Sherlock had, instead, died exactly seven months and three days since he had left England. Mycroft sometimes wondered if he had deliberately held on just to frustrate Mycroft’s last prediction.

* * *

He blamed the Watsons, of course.

It was the first thing on his mind when he looked at them. ‘Sherlock died for this,’ he would think, every time.

He made himself think that prior to all interactions with them, that Sherlock had died for them, because if Mycroft didn’t, he would kill them. He would remember the surveillance footage he’d obtained, of John Watson leaping on Sherlock and beating him, of Mary Watson shooting him, remember Sherlock in the garden of their parents’ cottage puffing out smoke like a dragon, and “Your loss would break my heart.”

(“Can’t handle a broken heart,” his brother had once scoffed at him. “How very telling.”)

But Sherlock had died for them, and so Mycroft would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

He kept them safe, under watch, cameras shifting from 221B Baker Street (leaving a few to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson) to John Watson’s Chiswick practice and his nearby semi-detached three-bedroom. There had been - of course - more remnants of Mrs. Watson’s past rearing their ugly heads to try and drag her back into it. There had been one angry madman who blamed Dr. John Watson for his wife’s cancer. (“A death threat you earned all on your own, Doctor,” Mycroft thought, when he heard about it, even though Watson had done nothing to justify the man’s fixation on him. But it was something that did not, for once, have its origins in Watson’s past with Sherlock.)

Sometimes he would let the threats get close - quite close. It was good to remind the Watsons of the many reasons they should keep a low profile. And it was good, in a different way, to give their comfortable lives a thorough rattling.

He kept them alive.

He lived for the thought of what would come after.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, all his doctors agreed (and he had the very best doctors in the kingdom), was in excellent health. Not only that, but he was a model patient - scrupulously polite, respectful of their expertise, committed to understanding and keeping to their recommendations and prescriptions.

Mycroft’s diet was carefully planned and even more carefully kept to. He exercised regularly and scientifically, never missing a day and never over-exerting himself. He had completely dropped smoking (not hard), drank only when necessary during social occasions (even easier), and made sure to get plenty of sleep (most difficult of all). He specified hours for work, hours for rest which he took more seriously than the work, and did not deviate. No less than the Prime Minister had learned that for blood or money, Mycroft Holmes was not to be forced out of his new work-life balance. He took his medications precisely on schedule, with his mobile beeping out alerts from a special app designed specifically to track his prescriptions. He visited his doctors regularly for executive check-ups.

Each necessary sacrifice was made cheerfully, motivated by the wonderful thought of living long enough to attend Dr. John Watson’s funeral.

* * *

Eurus had planted the seeds of the plan when he had visited her that last time, bringing the news of their brother’s death. She had spoken quietly, coolly, for five minutes. After, she had turned away and picked up a violin, drawing sweet, sad music from it in a way that forcefully reminded Mycroft of Sherlock with his Stradivarius in his arms. He had left with the intention of sending Sherlock’s precious violin to Eurus - only to be told, in the morning, that Eurus had somehow shot herself (he still did not know how she had gotten the pistol - but he did know it was a model matching the ballistics report from Sherlock’s post-mortem) and he was now the only surviving Holmes child.

The only mercy was that his parents never knew, had mourned her years ago and did not know they needed to mourn her again. They clung to their only surviving child and Mycroft let them, for as long as they had left, and was a model son just as he was a model patient.

* * *

Although his efforts would not fully bloom until after Dr. Watson’s death, Mycroft took pleasure in what he had already set in motion. Watson’s blog had been taken down, after Dr. Watson had been convinced of the necessity of keeping a low profile, and over the years Mycroft had worked at scrubbing all remaining records of the blog from the web and from physical archives. Sherlock’s notoriety was too much to be completely erased from the collective consciousness, of course, but the name of his chronicler could be. That Sherlock Holmes existed, and was brilliant, and most emphatically was not a fake after all, was known. The name of his blogger was increasingly not.

(Mycroft planned to have his brother’s adventures published again, eventually. He even had a pen-name for the ghost-writer who would be given the credit for the stories. Sherlock’s companion would remain nameless, where he absolutely had to be mentioned. Mycroft took a petty joy, admitting it was petty, in imagining the subtle ways he would cast Watson as an inept bungler, even if he was not called John Watson.)

Mycroft made sure the Watsons earned a comfortable living - and made sure they earned it - keeping them too busy to publish or attend conferences. John Watson, ex-Army surgeon and deadly shot, and Mary Morstan, ex-assassin and genius in her own right, faded into staid and wholesome British subjects, while Mycroft watched from afar.

(To live a life like the Watsons’ would have horrified Sherlock even more than death - it horrified Mycroft, even as he engineered it - and knowing that was part of Mycroft’s vengeance.)

He cast himself as a distant but indulgent pseudo-godfather to their only child, Rosamund. He interacted with her seldom, but sent presents often. Toys and sweets. Books, childhood classics, that Mycroft could remember Sherlock sneering at as a child. Horse riding lessons, ballet lessons, piano lessons ( _not_ the violin), equipment for Girl Guides, as Rosie’s tastes went. Later, when she was older, fully-paid trips and excursions and cruises, for her to go on with friends and family. Rosie had an idyllic and pleasant childhood, able to indulge in whatever caught her fancy. (And never encouraged to stick to any one interest.) She became a little social butterfly, blonde, pretty, and clever.

She had her mother’s brains and her father’s dash, which was why Mycroft worked hard to make sure her potential was squandered in mindless flitting from interest to interest and fun, tame activities that never pushed her towards greater heights. He smoothed her path in every way, with the result that she never learnt to navigate rougher waters.

He did not wish her ill, as he did her parents, so he was content to leave her happy - but average. Affable, well-travelled, and very indulged, like hundreds, thousands, of other British girls. A tourist, not an adventurer.

* * *

Mycroft took particular pleasure in sending Rosie treats in the form of sweets and rich foods whenever the occasion permitted. (He also made sure a chippy, a pub with excellent food, and a Tesco Express remained within walking distance of the Watsons’ home, despite rising real estate prices.) He picked foods that appealed to both Rosie and her father, and watched complacently as Watson slowly gained weight. Watson was enough of a soldier and a doctor to never let it get too bad, but - as he headed into his older years - he became what most people would describe as ‘stout’. Mycroft was distantly amused by the thought that Watson was now the one Sherlock would taunt as needing a diet, while Mycroft was in the best shape of his life.

It was not really for the effect it had on Watson’s health, although Mycroft admitted he enjoyed the bonus. Rather, it was for the effect it had on everyone’s image of Watson. Dr. John Watson, the stout GP with the ruddy face and the known fondness for chips and lager, made a very different impression from Dr. John Watson, the lean Army surgeon and crimefighter. Mycroft, the fat little boy who had become the tall, thin politician, knew very well how differently people would remember you based on how you appeared.

* * *

The Watsons fell out of touch with the others in Sherlock’s circle. Molly Hooper, having resumed her maiden name after her divorce, had become Head of the Pathology Department at Queen Elizabeth University Hospital in Glasgow. Unlike Watson, she had a stellar career, one only minimally helped along by Mycroft - she really was good at what she did. He was touched by how much she attributed her success to her unconventional learning by Sherlock’s side during those long-ago days. She was productive, busy and happy. And if there was a lingering sadness in her eyes, that only made Mycroft like her all the more. After all, he, too, would never get over the loss of Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson had moved back to the United States, where she dominated her retirement community as their undisputed Queen. Mycroft had purchased 221B from her, insisting on paying more than she asked for it, to ensure her comfort across the Atlantic. (She had apologized for calling him a reptile then.) He knew she never tired of singing Sherlock’s praises to her enrapt audience there - and he knew that, based on what he had told her about the Watsons, that she never mentioned them in those tales. A perfect microcosm of what he hoped to achieve in the future.

Lestrade was easy - all Mycroft had to do was let the Detective Inspector know everything about how it had all ended - the gunshot wound, the deal, the case. Access to all the files, so that Lestrade could draw his own conclusions. Lestrade drew away from the Watsons after that, not like Mycroft, but out of sheer pain. When Lestrade and the Watsons crossed paths, which was increasingly rare, Lestrade was awkward and non-conversational, even if he tried not to be. He was Assistant Commissioner now, in charge of Specialist Operations. Anderson had become his right hand.

Donovan was now languishing in Cornwall as a member of CPS, whose seniors were periodically reminded that Donovan was not in favor with the powers that be. (Mycroft remembered what she had helped convince Lestrade of - what she had called his brother.)

* * *

At night, Mycroft dreamed of Sherlock. Sometimes his brother was happy - laughing, taunting, bright-eyed, Mycroft’s dragon-slayer who had come back from slaying the dragon. Sometimes he was sad, and Mycroft knew his plans for the Watsons would have turned his baby brother’s face that way.

Still, he kept to them.

What else did he have left?

* * *

_and the preacher said he was a good man_   
_and his brother said he was a good friend_   
  



End file.
